What day is it? Month? Year? How do so many days and days go by in this fast forward blur without a stop? Cassidy is instructing her daddy how to sit on the edge of the rug for group sing, and now he can "get his outdoor shoes on to go outside." Oh, do I have a Montessori daughter.
Her joy. Just watching her. Her joy is just so big. Her heart is just so big. When I told her Gramma Phylly was coming for her birthday next weekend, she jumped up and down: "Gramma Phylly! I LOVE Gramma Phylly! And when I see her I am going to thank her for the table!" (she sent an early birthday present). "And right now I am going to give Zuki a nice big hug and thank him for all of the love that he gives me!" The cat. Omg.
My exhaustion. Exasperation. That I want to sew a few birds for a craft fair and every day kid myself that I will carve the time out this evening. Turned into next evening. Turned into the next. And write? I'll get up early tomorrow. (snooze button) Or maybe the next day. (but it's so cold) Or maybe the next (but my bed is so damn cozy). So I'll stay up late (yawn). Maybe tomorrow I'll stay up late (maybe I'll just read in bed). Maybe the next night (I haven't played words with friends in days).
She putters past me, "maybe you be the teacher and rub my back, is that okay daddy?" laying on the rug. "I can be a big girl and you can be a teacher."
"Alright!" My husband says. "I want everyone to go brush their teeth in the bathroom!" Ha. He knows how to play this game.
Lately I look at her face and marvel; it's changed again. I listen to her babble; it's more sophisticated, albeit still very much childish. What is happening? How can all this time be passing without my notice? WIthout grabbing some of it's pieces and recording them? What were all those funny things she said yesterday? Last week? Last month, or was that over the summer?
And though I'm sure I will keep NOT writing all the things down I think I will remember and then berating myself for not writing down, anything, in months and wondering where all that time has gone, there are some good signs that I am getting things right in this parenting gig. Cassidy expresses gratitude and appreciation in ways that swell my heart. She gets my sense of humor and I get hers, and we laugh and laugh and I get that she gets it, and she gets that she gets it. And she sings Bob Marley songs, not to mention her own songs, made up in the back seat of the car, about what she sees or thinks or what happened yesterday.
I could go on and on. I want to go on and on. But Chris needs to fill the outdoor wood furnace to keep us warm, and I need to get her in bed. And then I'll want to go to bed. And we'll do it all over again tomorrow.
It's been so long since I've blogged on here, but I have to (re) start somewhere. Too many times I've thought "it's been so long, what's the point..." but so many things go by that are write-worthy.
I started teaching in March, subbing for a teacher in a Montessori toddler community who had a medical emergency. "Can Cassidy come, too?" was all I needed to know when the job was pitched to me. We've been there together ever since. Not the ideal situation, but great to get my foot in the door, and honestly, we were both getting bored being home.
The awesome thing about being a teacher in the class your child is in is that you get a whole different perspective on who your child is in social community situations. The horrible thing about being a teacher in the class your child is in is that you get a whole different perspective on who your child is in social community situations. I have witnessed my child paint her face purple, run out of the classroom and book ass down the hallway countless times, pull her slippers and socks off and refuse to put them back on, and scream "I WANT SNACK NOWWWWWW!!!!!" This past week, the last of school, I happen to know how poorly she has been sleeping. I happen to know that she's going through some growth spurt, as she complains about her knees and legs hurting. I wanted to put a sign around her neck saying "please forgive me, I'm very tired."
I mostly have a sense of humor about all of it. After so many years of teaching preschool, I am practiced in patience and acceptance. And I have the utmost for children who are not my own. But today, the third time Cassidy hauled ass through the door and down the hallway, I implored Drew, the lead teacher, to please go after her. I could not play teacher anymore, I was straight up mom. I wanted to leash her.
At pick up, parents always ask how the day was. And what we say is that the days were good, or great, or that the children had "really high energy," which means most likely that we are really glad the day is over. There are children that grate at us, screaming or running or spinning and creating a vortex for the other children to join in, and things get chaotic. As it should be: for the most part, this is totally age appropriate behavior, and we are trained and practiced at riding these waves. One of the children has fierce tantrums, which is no news to her parents, and I am not reactive when she melts down lying down on the floor in a fit. We let her know we're there if/when she needs us, and let her go. The other children step around her, totally accepting of it, no big deal.
Most of the time when Cassidy chucks things across the room or puts toys and materials in her mouth, I redirect her, know it's appropriate behavior for her age, and find it all amusing. Other times I am astonished: this is my kid? MY kid? What the hell is she doing?
All of this, and at the same time, I am fiercely proud of my girl. I am proud of her spirit, her testing, her pushing, her questing. I suppose if she were just this good girl who followed the rules and pushed no limits, this would all be easier. But in the process of this self construction, no matter how humbling in front of other parents when she runs away saying "I leaving you, Mommy!" when I tell her it's time to go home, she is who she is, she will be who she will be, and starting in the fall, she will be in her own classroom with her own teachers, and I will be in mine.
